


Legacy (Waiting in the Wings)

by EachPeachPearPlum, the_genderman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Tower, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), Captain America Sam Wilson, Fluff, Found Family, Getting Together, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Team as Family, steve rogers is not captain america anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: Back in 1945, Steve Rogers – the then Captain America – crashed a plane full of bombs into the ocean, sacrificing his life to save millions of others. If he’d thought about it, he’d have said Captain America was dying with him, but he didn’t think about it, not really.But while Steve Rogers might have been Captain America, Captain America is much more than just Steve Rogers.Or: There's been a series of Captains America since Steve downed the Valkyrie, of which Sam Wilson is the latest. Then SHIELD finds Steve.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Much in the way of thank yous to the_genderman, for the wonderful art and idea that resulted in the fic you are about to read (as you know, genderman, yours was the only art I even thought about claiming for this bang), to ohstars for the speedy last minute beta and the brainstorming help, to J, Red, Pouka and Faustess for cheering me on when I had lost faith in this fic, and to the Marvel Reverse mods for being the wonderful, supportive, excellent human beings they are.
> 
> Titled paraphrased from New Model Army's Heroes. It fit better a few weeks ago, before I finished writing this, but oh well.
> 
> Additional note: I am not Black, and have sadly not had the benefit of a sensitivity reader for this fic. I have done my best to avoid problematic stereotypes and/or tropes, but if anything I've written causes you pain, unhappiness or even mild discomfort, please let me know and I will fix it.
> 
> Peach x

In the middle of the night, when the city is still too bright and too loud and too different, when the SHIELD facility he lives in is down to a skeleton staff and there’s no one left to distract him from how desperately alone he is, Steve can maybe admit he’s not doing too well.

It’s just- It’s hard. It’s so fucking hard.

Waking up, he was so relieved. Yes, he thought he’d been captured by Hydra and was about to be tortured, interrogated and experimented on for as long as it took him to break out or got rescued, but he’d put the Valkyrie down expecting to die and anything else was an improvement on that. He was going to get out of there, kill anyone who tried to stop him, do his part in helping to end the war, recover Bucky’s body and see him returned to his family, and finally get that dance with Peggy, if she still wanted it.

Then he’d smashed through that terrible, unconvincing set, charged through the building and all the agents who tried to stop him, and-

Sounds. Lights. Cars, pedestrians, clothing, speech, shrieks, laughter, fried food, coffee, garbage, the rivers, music, performers, horns, advertisements, chaos and madness and hell.

Steve died, and he woke up in hell.

He remembers Bucky promising him they were going to the future, somewhere between two and sixty-seven years ago. At the time, it was fun, a joke, an evening spent exploring what the greatest minds of the time thought the future might look like.

And now he’s here, and it’s everything and nothing like they used to imagine and he is so, so alone.

X

Sam has no idea how this is his life.

The first time he said that, he was out in Afghanistan, standing in a Command tent with Riley at his side and trying not to laugh when a group of people way more important than him wheeled out a locked case and told them they were going to fly. He’d turned to look at Riley, Riley had turned to look at him, and neither of them had needed to speak for them to know they were both thinking the same thing: _are we being punked?_

So he’d put on the wings, and he’d flown, and that was his life.

Until Riley had fallen, and Sam hadn’t known what he was doing out there anymore.

He said it again when Fury found him at Riley’s graveside, purposeless and grieving and desperately searching for a reason to get out of bed in the morning. “Staff Sergeant Wilson,” Fury had called him, and when Sam had corrected him – “no, not anymore” – Fury had nodded and said, “okay, how about Captain instead?”

“Are you sure?” Sam had asked, once Fury had shown him the shield (just one of the replicas used over the decades, the original still lost along with the body of the man who carried it) and a mock-up of Sam in the uniform. “I mean, I’m…”

“In case you haven’t noticed, so am I,” Fury had answered. “Not saying there won’t be backlash from the usual right-wing lunatics, but you can handle it.” He’d paused, clearly waiting for Sam’s response, then seemed to realise Sam didn’t have one. “You’ve got two days to decide, then I’m moving on to the second name on my list.”

Sam had lasted a whole three hours before calling the number on the very nondescript business card Fury had left him with.

So he’d put the wings back on, along with the uniform and the shield and the mantle that was by far the heaviest of the lot, and he’d gone into battle against threats he would have dismissed as fantasy only a few years ago.

And now there’s a feud between two Norse gods who are actually aliens and he’s on a team of superheroes and there’s an extraterrestrial army pouring from a hole in the sky above Stark Tower.

How the hell is this his life?


	2. Chapter One

Steve’s known for a couple of days now that there’s something going on, something big.

There’s the meeting he was supposed to have with Director Fury that was cancelled at the last minute, followed by rumours he overheard around the facility about something or someone called Pegasus being attacked – yes, Steve is familiar with the mythological creature, but he refuses to believe in flying horses, even this absurd future. 

His conviction that Pegasus must be something else was validated when the survivors started being flown in, men and women with burns and bruises and broken bones. Most of the injuries were minor, and while Steve didn’t manage to eavesdrop on anyone discussing what had actually happened, he did hear enough to gather that the more seriously injured had been hospitalised somewhat closer to the site of the incident. 

There were whispers after that, about something happening in Germany, an artefact, and a team sent to retrieve it, though no one could agree if it was a success or a failure. There was talk of another attack, panic that someone important was dead, that the team was in pieces and half of them were lost, that he’d escaped – whoever _he_ was – and no one knew where he was going to strike next.

All of which leads to today, when Steve is sitting in his usual corner of the mess hall, minding his own business (read: attempting to glean more information about the situation), and just so happens to glance out the closest window right as the sky opens up.

He’s on his feet immediately, standing at the window before it occurs to him that this might be one of those future things that seems impossible to him but perfectly normal to anyone else. The rest of the room follows him, though, expressions ranging from awed to afraid, and the mutters that accompany them cut off sharply when an alarm starts to sound.

“All field-ready agents to level one,” a woman’s voice says over the caterwauling. “This is a code mauve emergency. Repeat: all field-ready agents to level one. This is a code mauve emergency.”

 _Mauve?_ Steve thinks, even as he follows a whole host of agents through the door, along the corridor and down several flights of stairs; he’s as field-ready as any of the people surrounding him, even if he’s perhaps stretching the definition of ‘agent’ slightly.

There’s already quite a crowd forming on what Steve has to assume is level one, agents filtering left or right according to some system he can’t figure out. There is no clear categorisation in terms of uniforms, weapons carried, gender, age, or anything else easily observable, and after almost half a minute observing them Steve figures he might as well throw caution to the wind and pick a side.

Whether it’s because he picked the wrong one or it would have happened regardless, it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s approached by a woman carrying one of those flat, rectangular devices that seem ubiquitous in this century. There’s nothing on her uniform to mark her as an authority figure, no stripes or medals or insignia beyond the SHIELD logo everyone has, but she carries herself like she’s in charge, and the way the crowd of agents parts to let her through does nothing to counter that impression.

“Captain Rogers,” she says, her face showing only the briefest flicker of a smile as Steve finds himself standing to attention without consciously deciding to. “I’m afraid you are not yet authorised to leave the base.”

“No, ma’am,” Steve agrees, because Fury has been particularly insistent that he remain here, at least until he has a better grasp of how the future differs from his time. Given that the world has rattled on just fine without Captain America for close to seven decades, Steve’s been willing – if not remotely happy – to comply so far, but the level of activity going on around him suggests this is a rather more serious situation than SHIELD usually has to deal with. “But I’m field-ready, and this is a code mauve emergency.” _Whatever the hell one of those is_.

The woman smiles slightly, even as she shakes her head. “Be that as it may, you still aren’t permitted to leave, Captain,” she says. “Do I have to spare a team to escort you back upstairs, or will you go of your own accord?”

Steve spares a few seconds to assess the agents he can see without turning his head. They all seem fit, healthy, and well-armed, and Steve can’t see any injuries worse than a bruise or two; there’s no question that they would all be able hold their own against someone with training and without enhancements, but that isn’t Steve. Steve is about as enhanced as it’s possible to get while still being human, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than one team to keep him here if he decides he wants to leave.

But there’s things pouring from the sky, all of SHIELD seems to be mobilising, and Steve can’t jeopardise their efforts by insisting he go with them when they’ve made it clear they’ll attempt to stop him.

“I’ll go,” he says with a nod. “Good luck out there.”

She relaxes just slightly, returning his nod. “Thank you, Captain.”

She’s relieved, Steve thinks, that he’s not putting up a fight, but the thing is, he really doesn’t need to. Steve knows where his shield is, and the somewhat battered uniform he went into the ice in, and there’s more than one way out of the building.

X

The fight against Loki’s army is not going as well as Sam might like.

He’s worked with Romanov and Barton before, and while their working style might be somewhat unconventional, Sam has never had a problem with them. They've been partnered longer than Sam has been out of the military – hell, maybe longer than he was in it, too; they aren’t exactly forthcoming with the details, so Sam doesn’t have much to go on – and they communicate without words as often as they do with them, though they’re making an effort to actually say things out loud for the benefit of the rest of the team.

Sadly, they’re the only ones.

Sam can forgive Hulk, because he’s basically an overgrown toddler and therefore can’t be expected to do more than throw things; honestly, Sam is mostly just happy he’s sticking to destroying the aliens and occasionally roaring at civilians. Similarly, whilst Thor might look human (or maybe they all look Asgardian, Sam isn’t sure), he very definitely isn’t; the cultural differences have to be pretty damn significant, and it’s unreasonable to expect him to adhere to human norms.

Tony Stark, on the other hand, is entirely human, incredibly intelligent, and therefore has no excuse at all for his failure to get on with the team.

So when Sam swings his shield into what seems like the thousandth alien-on-a-jet-ski of the afternoon and it splinters into half a dozen pieces, that’s really just par for the course.

X

The SHIELD base isn’t deserted, but it’s as close to it as Steve has seen so far. He walks tall, shoulders back, acting like he’s supposed to be there, and no one questions his presence even when he’s clearly prying open the door to a lab on the second floor.

His shield is exactly where it was last time he saw it, on a work surface alongside fifty thousand futuristic machines Steve cannot fathom the purpose of. The scientists were running tests, Fury said when Steve asked about it, trying to discover what it was made from and whether they could make more of it and how it could be completely vibration absorbent and yet still rebound when thrown at things; Steve wasn’t entirely happy about it, but he also didn’t feel like he actually had a choice.

That doesn’t matter now, though, when he has his shield in his hands again, ready to fight for his city, his country, and apparently also his species and planet.

The chances of him getting out the building through any of the official entrances without a fight are slim to none, but his room is only a couple of storeys off the ground. It takes all of three seconds to snap the catch that keeps it from opening far enough for him to jump out, and then Steve does just that, landing lightly and taking off towards Stark Tower and its recently acquired giant hole in the sky at a run.

He passes more than one squad of SHIELD agents on the way, but either they think he’s supposed to be out there or he’s just moving too quickly for them to risk trying to stop him. He passes groups of police officers, too, as well as firemen and paramedics, both on foot and in vehicles, and none of them seem entirely sure what they should be doing. Hell, most of them haven’t got past the open-mouthed staring stage yet.

Steve thinks, more than once, about stopping and either giving them instructions about how they can help or shepherding them off the streets and into the subway tunnels, out of harm’s way. By the time the thought finishes forming he’s already a couple of hundred yards past them, though, and he’s not about to turn back to get the cops to safety at the expense of the civilians they ought to be protecting.

The destruction increases as he gets closer to Stark Tower, as does the urgency with which people are moving, and by the time he sprints past Grand Central the civilians have vanished and the police officers are actually making an attempt at fighting the aliens. They’re not doing much more than trying to hold the line, and at quite a distance to the epicentre of the invasion, but it’s better than nothing, or so Steve tells himself.

A few blocks further south, he reaches the middle of the chaos, and understands why the emergency services personnel are hanging back.

Steve recognises Iron Man from the many news reports he’s seen in the communal areas of the SHIELD base, and the woman, Natasha, he’s seen around the base at times. He’s only spoken to her once, when she’d cornered him in the mess hall, introducing herself in heavily accented English and demanding that he tell her everything about Peggy.

“She is hero,” Natasha had said when he hesitated, not knowing how to answer her. “I want be like her.”

And Steve had smiled – how could he not? – and told her about Peggy punching that asshole in the face the day they met.

She’s dressed in black leather today, a gun in each hand as she alternates between shooting aliens and barking instructions at civilians and emergency services personnel, no trace left of the accent she had last time Steve spoke to her.

The others – a man with a bow and arrows, another wearing a cape and wielding a hammer, and a half-clothed, gigantic green creature – are strangers, though they all seem to be competent fighters in their own ways.

What really catches Steve’s attention, however, is the man with wings.

His metal feathers glint in the sunlight as he glides through the air, more graceful than any bird Steve has ever seen. He swoops and dives, rides air currents back up again before dropping into a beautiful, lethal spiral, and the whole time he’s either shooting aliens or slicing them to ribbons with his wings or-

Or throwing a shield at them.

 _The_ shield.

He’s Captain America and he's flying and Steve can’t stop staring.

Until the man swings his shield into yet another alien, and the alien comes out of the encounter rather better than the shield does.

Steve doesn’t think twice before reacting. Hell, he’s not even sure he thinks once.

X

“Hey, Cap!” a voice shouts as Sam drops the bit of his shield that remained attached to the straps and reaches for his gun instead. He doesn’t recognise the voice, only spares the person shouting at him half a glance because they might be a civilian he has to get out of danger, and for a moment Sam assumes that’s what’s going on; the man he sees is wearing slacks and a button-down, like he stepped out of the office for lunch and instead found himself in the middle of an interplanetary war. Then, “Catch!” the man shouts, and an object comes flying towards Sam almost too fast for him to react.

He catches it, just, and only after it’s in his hands does he register what it is – namely, his shield, whole and unblemished – and quite how many objects it bounced off to get to him. The alien he was fighting is down, knocked backwards off its vehicle, but so are three others further away from him, and there’s a very sizeable dent in the closest streetlight.

Sam has watched all the footage of past Captains America, all the men who carried the shield before him. He’s studied their movements, imitated them, calculated angles and learned the physics about how different materials affect the way it’ll rebound. He’s practiced for hours, until his arms were aching and his hands were bruised and he was so tired of missing or miscalculating or getting knocked on his ass that he wanted nothing more than to tell Fury he took it back, he wasn’t Captain America, and then he’d got up and practiced some more.

He’s never seen anyone throw the shield like that, though, not since the very beginning.

 _Beginner’s luck_ , he tells himself, because it’s a hell of a lot more plausible than the alternative. This is just a SHIELD agent, assigned to provide them with whatever they need to finish this, no doubt with guns and ammo for Romanov and quivers full of arrows for Barton, and he’s just really fucking lucky he managed to get the shield over to Sam on his first go.

Besides, another wave of aliens have just got past Thor’s lightning, which means Sam’s gonna have a whole load of much more pressing things to deal with any second now.

X

Later, after Natasha’s worked her way up to the roof and found a way to close the wormhole, after the powers that be have decided to launch a nuclear missile on a major metropolitan area and Tony has demonstrated a surprising willingness to be a team player by getting rid of the problem, after he’s nearly died and laughed it off like he’s not gonna be living with the trauma of it for years to come… After the longest fucking day of Sam’s entire life, he just wants a moment to breathe.

Except then there’s the problem of finding a place secure enough to hold Loki overnight, working out what’s going to happen with the two incredibly dangerous alien artefacts that are now cluttering up their planet, attempting to avert an interplanetary conflict Earth is definitely not equipped for when Thor is adamant the Tesseract go with him, making sure everyone who needs medical attention actually stays still long enough to receive it, finding somewhere willing to feed them all…

There’s been a lot going on, is what Sam’s saying, which is why he thinks he can be forgiven for forgetting about the blond with the killer throw until Tony says, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you got a new shield mid-fight.” 

He’s slumped so far back in his chair that he’s closer to horizontal than vertical, and he’s got garlic mayo smearing his chin and dripping down his shirt. All in all, he’s barely recognisable as the suave, well-dressed man Sam’s used to seeing in the media, and if Sam thought his phone might have survived the battle, he’d be digging it out of his pocket to take a photo. “Hit an alien,” he explains instead. “Damn thing broke.”

“Hmm,” Tony manages, after a pause for another mouthful. “You know, if you keep breaking those things, I’m gonna start billing you.”

“You’re gonna have to find yourself a Captain America who can afford your prices, then,” Sam tells him, only partially joking; SHIELD might pay him better than the military did, but between the wings and the proprietary lightweight body armour and the shield, the Captain America kit is definitely out of his budget. “Speaking of the shield, though, did any of you see what happened to the agent who threw it to me?”

His question gets an assortment of shrugs, head shakes, and a, “Nay, I did not,” from Thor that isn’t quite as booming as it would have been this morning.

“Really?” Sam prompts, looking more to Natasha and Clint than to Bruce (who wouldn’t remember even if he had seen the agent) or Tony (whose attention was rarely in a single place long enough to notice anyone, which as it happens turned out to be pretty damn useful today). “Tall, blond, hell of a shot and muscles to die for? None of you saw him?”

Clint shrugs again, but Natasha goes from exhausted to dangerously sharp in a fraction of a second. “He had the shield?” she asks. “ _This_ shield?”

She has it in her hands without seeming to move, even though Sam would have sworn it was under his chair and therefore out of her reach a moment ago. Sure enough, when Sam slides his feet back to check, there’s nothing under there, and Natasha directs a very self-satisfied smirk at him as she runs her fingers over the metal.

Sam isn’t exactly happy about it, but he also knows better than to think he can get any information out of her before she’s ready to share it. “That’s it, yeah,” he answers, not sure why that matters to her.

Natasha nods. “I saw him,” she says lightly. “Damn good fighter, too. He’s fine. You’ll want to take a look at this, Stark.”

“Don’t see why,” Tony mutters, though he’s hauling himself far enough upright to accept the shield when Natasha passes him it. “I made the damn th- This is…?”

“It is,” Natasha answers.

“But- How did you get this?”

Sam’s expecting Natasha to answer that one too, because apparently she knows something Sam doesn’t (though, judging by their confused expressions, Clint and Thor are just as clueless – Bruce is snoring softly into his salad, so anything he does know he’s keeping to himself). She’s apparently going back to being mysterious, so it’s up to Sam to answer.

“Like I said,” he says, confused. “A guy threw it to me during the fight.”

“A tall, blond guy,” Natasha adds, her tone making it clear she thinks she’s adding something significant here, not that Sam has any idea what she’s getting at. “With, what was it, muscles to die for, right, Sam?”

“No,” says Tony, his voice flat and disbelieving, all traces of exhaustion vanished entirely. “This” – he raps his knuckles against the shield – “I’ll give you, because all Howard’s tests said it might as well be indestructible, but him?”

 _Him who?_ Sam thinks. “I’m not the only one with no idea what’s going on here, right?” he asks, mostly to Clint (who’ll either know because he’s a SHIELD agent and be a whole lot more liberal with the details than Natasha is, or he’s just as in the dark as Sam, in which case the solidarity will really help).

“I’ve given up trying,” Clint tells him, grinning. “Eventually she’ll get bored of being mysterious and explain, or Stark’ll remember he can’t keep a secret and announce it on national TV.”

“Funny,” Tony says, sounding very much like he thinks the complete opposite. “But, seriously, you’re saying he survived? For real?”

Natasha grins. “Turns out those cryonic preservation weirdos might not be as far off the mark as we think.” Then, because apparently Clint was right about her getting tired of being mysterious, she turns her smile on Sam and says, “His name is Steve Rogers. _The_ Steve Rogers. SHIELD found his plane a few weeks ago.”

 _No_ , Sam thinks. _No freaking way_.

X

Standing in Director Fury’s office after the fight is over and Iron Man has effectively dealt with both the alien invasion and the nuclear missile the people in charge apparently thought was a solution to the alien problem, Steve feels one hell of a sense of déjà vu.

“Captain Rogers,” Fury’s saying, his voice rumbling with threat. “You were under strict instructions not to leave the building.”

“I know, sir,” Steve says, aiming for respectful without anything that might be misconstrued as apologetic. He’ll face the consequences of his actions, whatever they may be, but he isn’t sorry, not at all; when he was a child, his mom used to say that part of saying sorry was a promise to never do it again, and if Steve can promise right now that if he found himself in the same situation a second time he’d do the exact same thing again.

Erskine didn’t give him this body so he could sit around following orders when people are in danger, and Steve isn’t about to apologise for trying to save lives.

Judging by the long pause, Fury’s expecting something more than this, but Steve is more than happy to leave him waiting. Eventually, Fury sighs, exasperated, and says, “I understand you’re frustrated at being kept back from the fight, and I imagine it was difficult to find out about Wilson that way, but my team had it well under control.”

“I don’t give a damn about being kept back,” Steve answers, more than a little annoyed at Fury’s assumption that this is what he’s annoyed at. After all, there’s no point at all in being angry about an order he had no intention of following, and anyone who knows anything of his history has to realise that he’s never going to sit on his thumbs and let people get hurt. Similarly, while he never considered the possibility, Steve has absolutely no problem with someone picking up the mantle after him, and he’s equally annoyed that Fury thinks that might bother him. “What I’m _frustrated_ about is the fact that you had men and women out there who were dangerously ill-equipped! Are you trying to get them killed?”

Fury blinks at him (at least, Steve assumes it’s a blink, because it’s very much not a winking conversation), his expression as close to surprised as Steve has ever seen it. “Captain?”

“If I hadn’t been there to throw him my shield, Captain Wilson would have been seriously injured at best,” Steve says. “I can understand having problems replicating the serum after Erskine’s death, but there’s no excuse for sending someone out with substandard equipment.”

“You threw him the shield,” Fury says flatly, for some reason choosing to focus on that rather than Steve’s accusation.

“Because the piece of crap you sent him out with shattered when he hit an alien with it,” Steve points out. “Was I supposed to leave him unarmed?”

“You were _supposed_ to stay in the building!” Fury barks. “It wouldn’t have been an issue if you’d stayed where you were supposed to.”

“You’ve read my file, Director Fury,” Steve says. “When have I ever stayed where I’m supposed to?”

This, Steve thinks, makes for an excellent exit.

X

Tony invites them all back to the tower when they’ve finished eating, then pushes everyone into accepting by 1) refusing to stop talking long enough to listen when they try to refuse and 2) having a car waiting outside the shawarma joint.

Given the choice between a cushy ride to a no doubt equally cushy (if slightly damaged by the alien invasion) guest room in Stark Tower and finding his own way to the SHIELD place he stays at when he’s in the city, Sam only refuses once, just to be polite.

They’re all filthy, exhausted, and no doubt they all smell less than pleasant, so no one hangs around to chat once they get there, nor do they accept the offer of a tour. Tony directs them all to separate bedrooms, apologising for the substandard accommodations and promising to have clean clothes in the correct sizes by the morning and breakfast up in the penthouse and their own private floors as soon as possible.

Sam doesn’t actually remember the way back to the elevator, but since the room he’s been shown to contains the biggest, most comfortable bed he’s ever seen in his lifetime, that’s very much a problem for when he wakes up.

Or it would be, except he’s only just stumbled out of the best shower he’s ever had when the ceiling calls his name.

In just the last day, Sam has fought aliens alongside a god with the original shield thrown to him by the original Captain America and then possibly moved into a billionaire’s monument to overcompensation. If someone had asked him a moment ago, he’d’ve said there was nothing left to surprise him.

Then the ceiling calls his name.

“Captain Wilson, I apologise for the interruption,” it says, sounding bizarrely like a posh English guy. “However, Sir is requesting you join him in the penthouse.”

 _Of course he does_ , Sam thinks, because apparently Tony Stark doesn’t realise that not everyone has ascended beyond the need to sleep. He looks down at the towel wrapped around his waist, then over to the corner where he left his uniform in a torn, stained, slightly stinky pile.

He looks back at the towel again.

Sometimes, there are no good choices.

“If I may, Captain Wilson,” the ceiling says. “Sir has ensured that all of the guest suites are equipped with a change of clothes, if that is of any assistance to you? The fit may not be ideal, but I suspect it may still be preferable.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Sam answers, perhaps more emphatically than necessary, but, actually, anything that doesn’t require him to see Tony Stark (plus whatever reason he apparently needs to see Sam right now) whilst dressed in a towel would be a relief right now. He crosses to the closet the ceiling has helpfully illuminated for him, opening it to see a neatly folded stack of sweatpants and another of pale grey tee-shirts.

Sam towels off quickly and gets dressed; the ceiling was right, they’re not exactly a perfect fit, and the fact that he feels like a walking billboard for Stark Industries is also not entirely what he wants from life, but not being semi-nude is always a victory.

“Okay,” he says, hooking his towel over the bathroom door. “Any chance you can direct me to the penthouse, Mr Ceiling Dude?”

“Certainly, Captain Wilson,” the ceiling answers, helpfully illuminating the door out of the bedroom. “And please, call me JARVIS”

X

Sam… was not expecting this. It feels kind of ridiculous saying that, after the actually unbelievable day he’s had, but it’s also true.

“There you are!” Tony exclaims the second Sam steps out of the elevator. It’s an extraordinarily enthusiastic greeting, or would be, if it weren’t for the edge of desperation in his voice and the glass clenched a little too tightly in his hand. His arm comes up, settling around Sam’s shoulders like they’re the bestest of best buds despite having only met yesterday, and Sam finds himself being hauled into some kind of lightly destroyed sunken living area, where Steve Rogers is perched on the very edge of a sofa cushion. “Captain America the First, meet Captain America the- what number are you again?”

Captain America the First stands up, looking every bit as uncomfortable with Tony’s greeting as Sam is, though he smiles and approaches them, holding his hand out. “Steve Rogers,” he says, waiting until Sam shrugs off Tony’s arm and accepts the handshake.

“Sam Wilson,” he answers instinctively, too baffled by the situation to manage anything more than that. “And I’m the seventeenth,” he adds, not sure if he’s talking more to billionaire Tony Stark or war hero Steve Rogers.

“Seventeen,” Steve says, sounding like this is the best gift he’s ever received. “That’s- wow.”

“You inspired a whole lot of people, Spangles,” Tony answers, rolling his eyes. “Spangles 1.0, that is.”

“Hey, I inspire people too.”

“I’m sure you do,” Steve says, sounding earnest enough to make up for the way Tony scoffs. “This is- It’s amazing. I had no idea they’d kept Captain America going until I saw you out there today, and now I’m learning there’s been sixteen of you. You’re incredible, and the wings…”

Sam has no answer for that, at least not one any better than a knee jerk _you can quit it with the flattery, you’re not getting your job back_. Since he’s not about to say that to the only recipient of a successful super-soldier serum (there was an attempt, back in the sixties, to replicate the serum for the guy who was Captain America at the time, but it went the same way every other go at it has), Sam just pastes on a smile and tries to ride out the awkwardness.

“So,” Tony says, a good twenty, thirty seconds before Sam would have broken the silence. “As fun as this is, I’m beat. It’s been a hell of a day, and we don’t all spend our days sat around waiting for a pirate to call us with a job. J’ll show you to an empty room.”

“Oh, that’s really not…” Steve starts, faltering when Tony turns his back, picks up a decanter from atop the bar at the back of the room and makes his way from the room. Judging by the decisive click of the door closing behind him, he doesn’t want them to follow. “Necessary,” Steve finishes, meeting Sam’s eyes with an expression of helplessness on his face.

Sam shrugs, not having a whole lot more idea what’s going on than Steve does.

“If you would return to the elevator, I can show you to your rooms,” JARVIS offers, apparently unperturbed by their confusion. “That is, assuming you wish to stay, Captain Rogers. Sir may lack a certain subtlety when it comes to issuing invitations, but I can assure you your stay here would be entirely optional. I can have a car waiting for you in a matter of minutes, if that is preferable.”

Steve visibly flounders, like he has no idea whether to accept or refuse either offer. Or, Sam thinks, like a very large part of him wants to refuse both the room and the car, but that he’s hesitant about doing so. It could just be those old fashioned good manners the 40s propaganda said Steve was full of, but-

But everyone Steve used to know must be either dead or suddenly almost seventy years older than him, Sam realises. Wherever he lived before the war is someone else’s home now, assuming it’s even still standing, and all his belongings are most likely in a museum.

“We’re all staying here, at least for tonight,” Sam says, offering him a way to accept without having to explain why; even if he’s not keen on having the scientifically superior Captain America hanging around with his team, Steve doesn’t have anywhere to go but back to SHIELD, and Sam’s not enough of an asshole to let that happen. “None of us has a place in the city, so it was here or a SHIELD safe house, and this way no one has to bunk with anyone unless they want to, you know? Plus, the place is huge enough that we could all move in permanently without Stark realising for at least a week.”

“It would take considerably longer than that, I suspect,” JARVIS says. “Ms Potts would most likely become aware of your presence somewhat sooner, but I believe she would be happy to have Sir’s teammates residing here.”

“See?” Sam says. “You’re good to stay.”

Steve smiles – awkwardly, uncomfortably, but it’s better than nothing – and nods, following Sam to the elevator.

“Thank you.” Steve directs this at the ceiling, his expression making it clear that, whatever he and Tony might have talked about before Sam got there, it didn’t include an explanation for the voice that speaks to them in empty rooms.

Sam is absolutely going to ask about that, as soon as he can figure out a not rude way of doing so. Natasha seems to know everything about everyone, so maybe she can explain why Tony has some English guy passing on messages and welcoming his guests and whatever else Jarvis does for him, and at least that way Sam won’t have to ask either of them about it.

That’s definitely something for tomorrow, though; right now, Sam has the world’s most comfortable bed to get back to, and he fully intends to sleep for at least the next twelve hours.

X

Steve has gotten very good at pretending to sleep in the time since SHIELD recovered him from the ice. 

As far as he’s aware, there’s no reason for it. He looked for any obvious recording equipment when SHIELD first gave him a room, then conducted a series of more thorough investigations after he discovered how small such devices could be nowadays; since he didn’t find anything on any of his searches, he doesn’t think SHIELD is monitoring him in his own quarters, so he doesn’t actually need to spend hours each night feigning sleep.

Regardless of the necessity of it, he’s very good at closing his eyes, slowing his breathing, and remaining completely still until either the sun rises or he finally drops off.

Despite being in a room more than twice the size of his quarters at SHIELD and a bed that is softer than anything he has ever known, he’s expecting tonight to be exactly the same, which is why it’s so surprising that the time goes from just after midnight to seven in the morning in the space of a single blink.

It’s longer than Steve has managed to sleep since 1945, but apparently helping to fight off an alien invasion will do that to a person. He feels well-rested for what is probably the first time since he shipped out to Italy, and incredibly awake.

If he was back at SHIELD, he’d have already eaten in the canteen and been on his way to the gym, where he’d stay until Fury sent an agent to distract him from his workout. Here in Stark Tower, he’s very conscious of the fact that he’s in someone’s home rather than a military facility, and he doesn’t feel comfortable wandering around unaccompanied.

Of course, there’s the man from last night who he wasn’t introduced to, who spoke to him in the lobby, the elevator and the penthouse, and then directed Steve and Captain Wilson to their bedrooms, all without showing hide nor hair of himself.

“Hello?” Steve says, quiet and more than a little hesitant, but if the man can speak to him elsewhere in the building, it’s worth a shot to see if he can talk in here as well.

“Good morning, Captain Rogers,” answers the same voice as last night.

Steve isn’t sure if getting an answer is a relief or not. On the one hand, it’s reassuring that he doesn’t have to venture outside of the room alone, but on the other hand, Steve isn’t exactly keen on having someone able to watch him whenever he chooses, just waiting for Steve to speak to him. “I hope I didn’t wake you?” he offers, halfway between a question and an apology.

There’s a momentary pause before the man answers. “As flattering as it is to hear I’ve passed the Turing test yet again, I am not human and therefore do not require sleep.”

 _Turing test?_ Steve thinks, frowning. He remembers Peggy once saying she’d introduce him to a man called that the next time they were back in England, but he put down the Valkyrie before that could happen, not that he knows what that could have to do with this, given what little he knew of what they were doing at Bletchley. And, anyway, the owner of the voice declaring that he’s not human is a lot more interesting. “You’re… extraterrestrial? Is that the right word?”

“Your choice of words is acceptable, although it does not apply to myself,” the voice says. “I am an artificial intelligence, Captain Rogers. Sir created me to assist with his experiments and to ensure the smooth running of his household. You may call me JARVIS.”

“I see,” Steve manages after a moment, though he doesn’t, not really. He learnt pretty early on that asking about the things he hasn’t quite figured out yet is way more trouble than it’s worth; explanations either end up being so wildly technical that Steve finds himself more bewildered by the explanation than he was by the thing that’s being explained or so lacking in important details that he might as well not have bothered asking.

“Is there something I can assist you with, Captain?” JARVIS asks after a moment.

It’s what Steve was hoping for when he first spoke to the empty room, that JARVIS would be both present and as helpful as he was yesterday, but he hadn’t actually prepared a question in advance. It feels like a definite oversight now. “I- Is anyone else awake yet? Any of the Avengers, I mean?”

“Agent Romanov is in the kitchen. I can direct you to her if you wish, Captain?”

“Natasha?” Steve asks, more for confirmation than because he’s actually uncertain; she might not be the only Avenger who happens to be an agent of some kind, but she is the only woman on the team, so it’s a very safe bet that it’s her. 

“Indeed.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he answers, because while Natasha might be little more than a stranger, she’s also the only person in the building he’s spoken to for more than five minutes. “Thank you.”

“That’s quite alright,” JARVIS says. “Captain, I hope you won’t consider my actions to be overstepping, but Sir charged me with procuring new clothes for his teammates last night, and I took the liberty of purchasing some for you as well. They are outside your door, if you wish to change before going upstairs.”

“Oh,” Steve manages, looking down at what he’s wearing like there’s a possibility they might have changed since he put them back on after he woke up. They haven’t, obviously; he’s in exactly the same clothes as he put on once he’d cleaned up after fighting aliens with the Avengers, and whilst he’s aware they aren’t the height of current fashion, they’re still comfortable and clean. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“If you are comfortable, nothing at all, Captain,” JARVIS tells him, clearly attempting to reassure him, not entirely successfully. “I merely wished to give you the option. Shall I direct you to the kitchen now?”

Steve agrees, following the subsequent trail of blue lights to the elevator he took yesterday, which rises so smoothly and silently that he doesn’t realise it’s moved until the doors open on a different floor.

Walking into the kitchen feels much like running out of the building SHIELD woke him up in did, if on a somewhat smaller scale. Going from 1945 (even with his exposure to advanced technology courtesy of both Howard Stark and Hydra) to 20121 was terrifying and mind-boggling, simultaneously everything and nothing like the science-fiction novels he and Bucky used to read, and just as Steve feels like he’s starting to get used to the future’s reliance on technology for every little thing, he finds himself in Stark Tower where even the butler is computerised.

He doesn’t belong here.

At least at SHIELD, he feels like he might, at some point in the future, have a purpose again. Once he’s cleared for duty, they’ll put him to use working missions an unenhanced agent couldn’t hope to succeed at. Steve will go back to doing what he’s good at, fighting bad guys, and that will be that.

He tries to ignore the excessive number of appliances in the kitchen, half of which he can’t even guess at the purpose of, and crosses to what even he can recognise is a coffee pot.

“Mugs are in the cupboard to your right,” Natasha volunteers from a corner Steve could swear was empty when he walked in. She’s wearing grey sweatpants and a navy vest that would have been considered nothing more than underwear back in Steve’s day; between her outfit, her lack of accent, the unruliness of her curls and the bowl of cereal she’s carrying, she seems an entirely different woman to the one he met at SHIELD. “Should probably warn you it’s decaf, though. Top me off if you’re going to tip it out and make a new pot, please.”

Steve refills the mug she nudges towards him, then gets one of his own from the cupboard she indicated and fills it from the pot. “Caffeine does me as much good as alcohol since the serum,” he explains in response to her questioning look.

“Right,” she answers, smiling inscrutably up at him. “I read your file.”

In lieu of a response – because, truthfully, he has no idea at all how to respond – Steve just smiles awkwardly back at her before taking his mug over to the island in the centre of the kitchen and perching on one of the bar stools next to it. He’s not expecting Natasha to follow him, but she does, still looking like she knows something he doesn’t (which would be impressive, because Steve feels like he really ought to know everything in his own file).

She doesn’t say anything, just alternates between sipping at her coffee and eating spoonfuls of her cereal, and Steve still doesn’t feel like he knows how to talk to her. He knows he needs to, because it’s past time he headed back to SHIELD and left this century’s superheroes in peace, but he doesn’t really know her, or how to express his gratitude for having a roof over his head last night (particularly difficult, since it’s not Natasha’s roof, though she does have considerably more right to be there than he does), and it’s… he’s just not comfortable.

Steve has finally psyched himself up enough to explain that he’s returning to SHIELD and to ask Natasha to convey his admiration to Captain Wilson (not that he requires it, clearly, and even wanting to express it is probably horribly patronising, like Steve thinks his approval is in any way important, like he believes he deserves a say in who Captain America is nowadays) when Natasha speaks up.

“I should apologise,” she says softly, lowering her mug to the table.

Steve blinks, confused. He wouldn’t necessarily have pegged Natasha as the apologising kind, particularly not when the person she’s apologising to has absolutely no idea why it’s happening. “For?”

She shrugs. “Misleading you.”

 _The accent_ , Steve realises, thinking back to that meeting in the SHIELD canteen, Natasha sitting at his table when no one else would, asking him questions about something other than what he thought of their loud, messy, confusing future, expecting something other than a pat on the back for the state of the world. “Did you mean what you said about Peggy?” he asks.

“Of course,” Natasha agrees instantly, meeting Steve’s eyes without hesitation. “I may have misrepresented my ability to speak English, and I asked you about her because I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to talk about her, but Director Carter is an incredible woman. I enjoyed hearing about her from someone who knew her when she was younger.”

It’s not a thank you, the same way that she said she should apologise rather than actually doing it, but Steve decides to believe that’s what it is. “You’re welcome,” he tells her, and sees her mouth quirk into an approving smile. “She wa-” he cuts off, realising something about her words. “Wait, you said _is_? Peggy’s-?”

He can’t actually bring himself to finish the question, to give voice to the hope that he’s feeling, because if he says it, this sudden possibility that he can’t even bring himself to really think, it will seem so much more real, and it will crush him all the more if it isn’t.

It doesn’t seem to matter that he can’t ask it, because Natasha understands anyway. “She’s alive,” she says gently. “You didn’t know?”

Steve shakes his head. “Fury told me about Howard’s accident, and he gave me files on each of the Commandos,” he explains, aching with the knowledge that Peggy is still alive, still here, and he hasn’t seen her yet. “He didn’t mention Peggy, so I just- assumed she was gone too. I thought he would have told me if she- if I could have seen her.”

Because Fury has to have realised that Steve would want to see Peggy. Even though she’s older now, even knowing that she’s already lived the future Steve once imagined he might share with her, he wants to see her. He wants to hear about her life, all the wonderful things she must have achieved, the lives she saved and the changes she must have fought what felt like the whole world to bring about. He wants to know all of it, and he could have learnt it all months ago, if only someone had told him she was still here.

“She’s in a retirement home in DC,” Natasha tells him, her hand reaching across the island to take his. It’s more contact than he’s had with anyone since 1945, a closeness he didn’t realise he missed until now, and he can’t help squeezing her fingers in return, has to work hard to keep himself from clinging so tightly he hurts her. “She has Alzheimer’s. It means she gets confused sometimes, can’t always remember where she is or what year it is.”

“But she’s alive,” Steve says quietly. He understands what she’s saying, the unspoken warning that Peggy might not know him, but that isn’t important, not compared to discovering that she’s alive.

She’s alive, and SHIELD kept that from him, the same way they kept it from him that there have been another sixteen Captain Americas since he crashed the Valkyrie, the same way they’ve kept heaven knows how many other things from him.

Maybe, Steve thinks, he can take advantage of Tony Stark’s hospitality a little longer after all.

“Do you know where it is?” he asks.

Natasha nods. “I haven’t been there, though,” she adds. “It’s a secure SHIELD retirement facility, just in case she gets confused and reveals something classified, but I can’t imagine Captain America having any trouble getting in to see her.”

“I don’t know that he’d want to come with us,” Steve answers, deliberately misunderstanding, but he needs her to see that he means this, that he understands that the world moved on in his absence, found new people to carry the shield once he was gone, even if it was only a shoddy replica shield until yesterday. “Do you think Black Widow could get me in instead?”

“I’m offended that you even have to ask,” Natasha says, smirking at him as she finally releases his hand. “JARVIS, do you think Tony will let us borrow a car, or are we better off just taking one?”


	3. Chapter Two

Sam has absolutely no intention of moving into Stark Tower. Sure, the team worked surprisingly well together once they managed to iron out the kinks, and, yeah, he’s always thought living rent free in a billionaire’s home might be kind of nice, but he has his own place, one he’s worked hard for and very much intends to keep.

Hell, now that Steve Rogers is apparently back from the not-quite-dead, it’s not like the team’s going to need him to stick around. The world’s only successful superhero is back on his feet, shield swinging, and that means it’s time Sam hangs up his armour and makes a go of civilian life.

First things first, he needs to get the shield (which he eventually managed to reclaim from Tony last night) back to its rightful owner, and then he’s going to find his way to SHIELD and hitch a ride on the first transport heading his way.

Except when he gets out the shower (yeah, whatever, he knows it’s only a few hours since the last one, but Stark can more than afford the water bill and Sam intends to take full advantage of the facilities while he’s here), dresses in the horrendously expensive (or so he assumes, based on the fact that not one of the tags has anything resembling a price on it) clothes that arrived outside his door during the night, and asks JARVIS where Steve is so he can return the shield, JARVIS tells him Steve and Natasha have gone on a road trip to see Steve’s former honey. 

Which, fine, Sam completely gets that. If he had the option of seeing Riley again, he’d absolutely have stolen one of Stark’s cars and taken off in the dead of night (or eight in the morning, like that’s in any way the point here) without a care for his responsibilities or a word to anyone. Really, Sam’s just being selfish, wanting Steve to be here so he can return the shield as soon as possible, before he can start thinking he has the right to keep it.

It won’t kill him to stick around until they get back.

So he stays, spends the first day wandering around the tower, feeling a little bit like he’s trespassing, though JARVIS never says anything to suggest he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. He finds Thor in the kitchen, surrounded by boxes of what seems like every single flavour of pop tart ever produced and conducting the kind of in depth analysis that makes Sam think backing away without saying anything is the better part of valour. Clint is up on the roof, alarmingly close to the edge, and Sam winds up spending a couple of hours just sitting with him, neither of them speaking until Clint stands up, claps him on the shoulder and says, “Thanks, man,” like Sam has actually done something more useful than being there.

Around about seven, he heads back to the kitchen, where the room is empty but the fridge well-stocked, and figures since no one else is there he might as well throw together something to eat. Pasta is easy, and he makes a whole lot of it then asks JARVIS to tell anyone who’s hungry that there’s food for the taking before taking his own bowlful and a bottle of some microbrew he’s never heard of back to his room and spends the rest of the evening watching crappy reality shows on the oversized TV that emerges from the wall opposite his bed.

Day two, he starts with a run before breakfast and spends some time after that meditating with Bruce (who approves of the pasta, and declares his intent to cook this evening). He hangs out with Clint in the shooting range Tony has apparently built in the last twenty-four hours, losing horribly at some bizarre target practice game he doesn’t understand the rules of, and follows that up with finally daring to ask JARVIS where their erstwhile host is, since apparently no one has seen hide nor hair of Tony since they got back from the shawarma place.

At JARVIS’s instruction, he heads to Tony’s extra special engineering floor and spends what seems like an hour getting chewed out for being there before finally managing to get a word in edgeways about JARVIS letting him in. This diverts Tony’s attention to berating his cyber-butler, who, rather than seeming bothered by this, points out that Tony had planned to upgrade Sam’s wings and wasn’t this the perfect opportunity to do so.

Sam doesn’t understand a whole lot of what follows, other than that apparently his new wings are going to be about a thousand times better than the old ones, equipped with god knows what, but it’ll take a few days for Tony to get them up and running so Sam’ll stay until then, right?

He doesn’t remember agreeing, but Tony acts like he has, and that’s that.

Bruce’s curry is one of the best things he’s ever eaten.

X

The stew Thor makes the following day is very definitely not.

X

He’s been staying in the tower for almost a week before JARVIS finally tells him that Tony has finished upgrading his wings, and Sam has to admit to feeling a childish amount of glee at the announcement. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t finish his lunch before heading down to Tony’s workshop, because Clint has realised he can’t spend all his time either brooding on the rooftop or shooting targets and it turns out he makes a mean grilled cheese, but he also doesn’t hang about any.

There’s another sandwich plated up next to the stove by the time he’s finished eating, because apparently Sam isn’t the only one concerned about Tony’s deplorable eating habits, or lack therefore; the engineer still hasn’t left his workshop, and it’s only the fact that he saw a cot when he was down there that has kept Sam from dragging him out of there and forcing him to get some sleep.

He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and an apple from the bowl of fruit on the island, then thanks Clint for the sandwich and heads to the elevator.

Tony is blasting Metallica loud enough that it doesn’t even sound like music anymore, and Sam makes sure to approach slowly, waiting until he’s sure Tony has seen him before putting the food down on the table he’s working at.

“You eating down here now?” Tony asks, after he has JARVIS lower the music until it’s no longer louder than the ringing in Sam’s ears.

“They’re for you,” Sam answers. “In exchange for the wings.”

“You’re trying to pay for my technology with food I paid for?” says Tony, fingers twitching, tapping at the tabletop and his thighs and the tools scattered in front of him and his chest, the arc reactor, always going back to that. “I might have expected that from Barton or Romanov, but you, Wilson? Seriously?”

Sam rolls his eyes, sliding the plate slightly closer. “Hey, man, I just figured you could probably do with something to eat,” he says. “No skin off my nose if you don’t want it.”

“I’ll eat when I’m dead,” Tony quips, shrugging. “Whatever, you know what I mean.” Still, he glares down at the food for a moment before picking up the apple, polishing it on his shirt and then inspecting it carefully, like he’s trying to check for poison or something. Eventually, he must decide its safe enough, because he takes a bite from it, gesturing with his other hand as he chews. “They’re over there – you want a tutorial before you try them out?”

Sam heads towards where Tony was pointing, skirting around work tables, reclaimed Chitauri technology in varying states of dismantled, a clawed arm that beeps inquiringly at him and a whole mess of what Sam has to assume are unfinished inventions until he reaches what looks like his old harness, even though the wing pack attached to it can’t be more than half the size of his old one. There’s some kind of wrist cuff lying next to it, as well as a pair of goggles with red-tinted lenses and, yeah, Sam thinks a tutorial is a good idea.

“Sure,” he says, and braces himself to be baffled by whatever comes out of Tony’s mouth.

To his surprise, though, Tony’s explanation is coherent, the science talk toned down enough that Sam can understand it, and in what feels like no time at all Tony announces that he’s probably got the basics and is ready to give them a whirl.

Sam glances at the room around them. “Where do you suggest?” he asks, really hoping the answer isn’t _here_ , because just walking around the workshop is challenging enough.

“The roof,” Tony answers, looking at him like it’s a stupid question, as if Sam was somehow supposed to know he doesn’t have a fancy, high-ceilinged flying practice room hidden away in the building. “Now, shoo. I’ve got important things to be getting on with.”

“Eat your sandwich,” Sam says, by way of farewell, and has JARVIS take him up to the roof.

He’s- not _expecting_ , as such, but he’s aware there’s a possibility Clint might be up there, brooding silently, or maybe Bruce, who has co-opted an area of the roof that gets great morning sunlight and is in the slow process of turning it into a garden. What he’s definitely not expecting, however, is Steve Rogers, sitting at the top of the steps that make up Tony’s bizarre dis-armouring machine, a pad of paper on his lap and a pencil in his hand.

“You could have told me he and Natasha were back,” Sam mutters under his breath, sending a frown at where he thinks JARVIS’s elevator camera is located, but Steve has already looked round when the elevator doors opened so it’s too late for Sam to retreat.

“Hi,” he says, stepping out of the elevator.

Steve stands up, grinning at him. “Hi!” he answers, a hell of a lot more enthusiastically than Sam was expecting, and he walks towards Sam, the two of them meeting in the middle of the rooftop.

Sam does not feel awkward, not at _all_. He has zero problems making conversation for his predecessor-slash-replacement. “Good trip?”

Steve shrugs, halfway smiling. “Not bad,” he says, and, like his smile, his tone is only halfway to being light. “Peggy is… she’s not well, but it was good to see her, you know? Someone who remembers who I used to be, before all this.”

He waves his hand in a way that is presumably supposed to encompass the muscles and the extra height and the sudden improvement in health the serum gave him, and Sam would be jealous (because, god, there are so many mornings where he wishes he didn’t have to work damn hard to stay in shape enough to do what he does) if Steve didn’t look so overwhelmingly sad behind that dumb brave face he’s trying to put on.

Sam reaches out without thinking about it, putting his hand on Steve’s arm and squeezing gently, comfortingly, then squeezing again because wow. Just wow.

And then he realises what he’s doing, basically groping the poor, out-of-time, visibly grieving and almost certainly uncomfortable supersoldier, and releases him immediately, taking a step back. “I was going to test the wings,” he says, an explanation for his presence the first thing he could think of, then remembers he’s got something much more important to do. “Since you’re here, though, I should probably go get the shield.”

Steve blinks. “Why?”

Sam pauses, just as confused as Steve apparently is, though since his reason ought to be blindingly obvious he has no idea _why_ Steve is confused. “To give it back to you?”

“Is there a reason I need it?” Steve asks.

“I mean, not right this second, as far as I know,” Sam tells him, feeling very much like they’re having two different conversations here. “But at some point, sure.”

“I doubt it,” Steve says, shrugging again, and it sounds like he actually means it, like he really doesn’t care if he gets his shield back or not. Before Sam can really figure out how he’s misunderstanding this (because he is, obviously; in addition to being one of the most significant objects in American history, the shield is one of a kind, beyond even Tony Stark’s ability to replicate, and there’s no way in hell its rightful owner would just give it to someone else so easily), Steve continues. “But if you wanted to practice with it while you’re up here, I’d love to help. Only if you want to, I mean.”

Sam genuinely has no idea what’s going on here. The words, fine, he has zero difficulty understanding those, but the entire situation is just completely baffling, so far beyond his expectations that he has no hope at all of comprehending it.

“Sure,” he manages, hoping he doesn’t sound as flummoxed as he is. “I guess I’ll just… go and get it, then?”

And then he escapes, before Steve can say anything else to confuse him.

X

The thing is, it’s fun, like flying hasn’t been since he saw Riley blown out of the sky. It takes a few minutes for him to adjust to the new wings, longer than it might have if he didn’t have Steve watching him, but once he does, they feel like they’re a part of him, controlled by his thoughts alone.

He’s just finished his first stomach-churning, dizzying, utterly exhilarating loop-the-loop when Steve calls, “Sam,” and next thing he knows the shield is flying right at him.

Part of him shouts at him to duck, to dodge, to get the hell out of the way because it’s going to hurt like the devil when it hits him; another part of him of him shouts that he can’t move, because maybe it’ll break his ribs but he’s eighty-something storeys in the air and if he doesn’t stop it there’s a risk of it doing a hell of a lot more damage to someone else on the ground. 

A third part of him, the part that is purely, perfectly instinctual, moves just a few inches to his left, catches the shield in his right hand and allows the momentum to spin him a full three-sixty degrees before releasing it, sending it right back at Steve, who only has to duck down a little bit to catch it.

Steve straightens up, laughing, and runs a few paces before whipping it back at him, not as direct a throw this time, but before Sam can blink there are trajectories flashing across his goggles, spitting out numbers far faster than Sam could hope to do on the fly and he follows them, obviously, swooping to the point they direct him to and- there!

Yeah, fine, Sam’s laughing too.

It’s fun, just fun, and Sam has no idea what to do with that.

When JARVIS announces that Natasha has ordered them all Mexican for dinner and expects everyone in the kitchen in fifteen minutes (the _or else_ is unspoken but very strongly implied), Sam’s enjoying himself enough that he almost considers disobeying her.

X

Natasha is, Steve gathers, the first to demand they all eat dinner together, but she’s not the last.

Sam and Bruce cook, huge pans of curry or soup, paella, burgers and fries, steak or roasts, salads and sandwiches. Clint shows an aptitude for baking, producing loaves of bread, breakfast pastries, cookies and cakes at a frankly alarming pace, most of them visually unappealing but surprisingly delicious.

Tony, Pepper, Natasha and Thor stick to ordering in, citing a lack of skill, a lack of time, a lack of interest, and an unwillingness to cater to unrefined Midgardian palates, and after Steve’s first time in the kitchen is met with polite smiles and absolutely nothing in the way of praise he decides it’s probably best that he does the same when it’s his turn.

It starts with food, meals eaten together in the kitchen or the lounge, squabbling over whose turn it is to load the dishwasher or wash the pots and pans that can’t go in it. Steve helps Clint bake, putting his enhanced muscles to use whisking eggs or creaming butter and sugar. Bruce lets him fetch ingredients and taste-test whatever he’s cooking, while Sam very occasionally allows Steve to stir things, as long as he’s there to supervise (read: tease him mercilessly for his inability to cook anything with any kind of flavour). Tony doesn’t laugh when Steve orders in the same thing from the same place three weeks in a row, which is about as much as Steve thinks he could reasonably have hoped for.

It starts with food, and Natasha forcing them together, but then there’s movie nights, ‘classics’ made while Steve was on ice that someone insists he has to see, new releases that came out while Bruce was on the run or Tony was in Afghanistan, things from Steve’s time that prove the woeful gaps in the others’ cinematic educations.

Bruce lends Steve books he apparently just _has_ to read, while Clint teaches him to play video games and shoot a bow (although that only lasts until the third arrow, given that that’s how long it takes Steve to break both the target he’s shooting at and Clint’s backup bow). Tony gives him truly terrifying technology lessons, Natasha alternates between demanding Steve teaches her to knit (he has no idea how she found out he can do that, and he’s not about to say no) and demonstrating that her size does absolutely nothing to disadvantage her in the ring, and with Thor Steve is able to spar without holding back for the first time since he got the serum.

Sam is… Sam is just incredible.

It’s not just the wings. Yes, they’re obviously incredible, a marvel of engineering Howard could never even have dreamed of and Tony should be incredibly proud of, but it’s more than that. Someone else could put on the uniform or the wings, and Steve knows that they have, previously, but they weren’t and wouldn’t be him.

They wouldn’t have his grace, his strength, his instincts. They wouldn’t fly like they were born to do it, like they’ve been waiting their whole life for the opportunity to step out their door and just _soar_. They wouldn’t wield the shield like it’s an extension of their arm, catch it without fumbling time after time after time, throw it at moving targets with a confidence that suggested the possibility of missing hasn’t even crossed their mind.

They wouldn’t have his presence, his courage, his sense of humour, his well-earned physique, his smile, his laugh, his…

Steve’s been living with the Avengers for just shy of two months when he realises he’s falling for Sam, and he’s falling _hard_.

X

“Sooooo,” Natasha says, resting her hip on the arm of the sofa, just a little bit too close to where Steve’s sitting. “You got the memo about same sex marriage, right?”

Steve blinks, tearing his attention from the weird dancing game Sam and Clint are playing and that he has so far managed to avoid being dragged into. “Yeah,” he says, confused by her completely unprompted question (though from the way she’s smirking, it seems safe to say she’s plotting something he isn’t going to like). “Why?”

“Just checking,” she answers lightly. “No reason.”

Steve really wishes he believed her.

X

Sam has no idea why Steve is in the gym. Sure, he looks like he works out twenty hours a day, but his enviably stunning physique is basically the result of superhero steroids, and there is no reason at all for him to be in here lifting probably double Sam’s weight.

Even if he does look damn fine doing it.

“Pay attention,” Natasha murmurs, right before her leg swipes out to knock Sam’s feet out from under him, sending him thudding face first into the mat with her on top of him, wrenching his arm up behind his back until he quits trying to dislodge her and taps out.

She climbs off him and Sam flips over onto his back, glaring at her as he attempts to massage away the ache in his arm.

Being Natasha, she is entirely unaffected by either his glare or the vast array of very angry things he’d be saying to her if Steve didn’t have enhanced hearing (but there’s no doubt in Sam’s mind that she knows he’s thinking them).

“Don’t worry,” she says, not bothering to lower her voice this time. “It’s mutual.”

The lurch in Sam’s stomach feels a lot like hope, and he squashes it down, hard. So what if Steve is kind and handsome and as far as Sam can tell not actually looking to replace him? All that means is that he’s a decent human being, and expecting anything else is looking for something that isn’t there.

Besides, Sam isn’t even sure he wants it to be there. 

“No,” he says. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. Just don’t.”

Natasha smiles at him, waits just long enough for Sam to understand just how much he’s going to hate whatever she’s about to do, and then shouts, “Steve, I’m tired, you wanna tag in?”


	4. Chapter Three

Pepper Potts is not an uncommon sight in the kitchen Steve shares with the Avengers, but usually she has a cellphone in one hand, a coffee in the other, and she’s usually attempting to get Tony to deal with one important business situation or another.

Today, however, her phone is nowhere to be seen, and nor is Tony. Instead, she's sitting at the counter, flipping casually through the paper that arrives daily even if Steve’s never known anyone other than himself to read, and when Steve walks in, she looks up and smiles at him.

“Good morning, Steve,” she says, putting the paper aside.

“Pepper,” Steve greets her in return, making himself a bowl of cereal before crossing to the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup. He lifts the pot, a silent offer, and when Pepper nods he brings it over to the breakfast counter and tops off her coffee.

“Thanks,” she says, then smiles politely even as she casts a pointed glance at the chair opposite her.

Since he doesn’t have anywhere else to be at the moment, Steve obeys, and for a few moments he eats in silence while Pepper sips her coffee. 

“Is there something I can do for you?” he offers, once he’s eaten enough to take the edgiest of the edges off. 

“Well, actually,” she starts, her voice determined enough that Steve feels just a smidge of dread. “I’ve got two tickets to a gallery opening this evening, but I don’t have anyone to accompany me.”

This isn’t anywhere near as bad as any of Steve’s partly formed imaginings (he’s seen the videos they had Sam doing when he first took up the mantle, and he lives in fear of having to do one himself), but he’s also not sure why she’s telling him it. “Did Tony go out of town? I’m sure I saw him yesterday.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Pepper answers. “But he’s a nightmare at events like that. He doesn’t have the patience for it, tries to buy anything I look at for more than five seconds. For some reason, the idea that I might want to just _look_ at something is incredibly hard for him to grasp.”

“I see,” Steve says quietly, not entirely comfortable with criticising the man who has so generously offered him a place to live, let alone doing so in the presence of his girlfriend, even if she did so first. “Surely someone else would be happy to accompany you. Natasha, maybe, or Colonel Rhodes?”

“Natasha has plans tonight,” she says dismissively. “And James is in DC at the moment.” Pepper sighs, takes another sip of her coffee, and then sets it down with a decisive click. “I’m sure I read somewhere that you were an art student before the war, so I thought you might enjoy an event like that. It’s okay if you don’t want to, though. I’ll go some other time.”

Steve strongly suspects she’s trying to guilt him into accepting her offer, but she’s not wrong. Steve does enjoy art, trying to understand the artist’s intentions, finding meaning and beauty in something another person has created. He can also sympathise, because God knows Bucky was an impatient nuisance when Steve used to drag him places, and…

“I’d be happy to accompany you, Pepper,” he says, smiling, and her answering grin is relieved enough that he doesn’t mind the manipulation too much.

“Fantastic,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “JARVIS, you’ve got Steve’s measurements on file, can you see to it that he’s got something suitable to wear tonight.”

“Of course, Ms Potts,” JARVIS answers.

“But I’ve got clothes,” Steve tells her and JARVIS both, but she’s already left the room and JARVIS remains pointedly silent.

X

Sam wakes up when the person in the bed beside him sits up. This is alarming, on account of how there definitely wasn’t anyone else in his bed when he crawled into it this afternoon after a mission that ran entirely too long.

Fighting to keep his breathing even, his eyes closed, his heart rate steady, Sam slides his arm down between the mattress and the wall, fingers closing around the grip of the gun he keeps holstered there. He pulls it out, just as slowly, then simultaneously rolls away from the intruder, landing on his knees on the floor, and flicks off the safety, pointing his gun at the intruder.

Just as quickly, he flicks the safety back on again, his heart going a mile a minute. “Jesus, Natasha, I could have _shot_ you!” he exclaims, horrified at her and at himself.

In response, Natasha smirks, holding out her right hand and dropping bullets onto Sam’s bed one by one. “You think?” she murmurs, then waits until Sam has reloaded the gun, checked the safety, and slipped it back down behind the mattress before adding, “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“We are?” Sam answers, so flat it barely counts as a question.

Natasha’s smirk becomes somewhat more pronounced. “We are,” she confirms, crossing to his closet and rummaging around in it. She emerges a moment later, holding a soft grey tee-shirt, a pair of very tight jeans Sam is sure he got rid of when he moved in here (he might have been raised to value getting his money’s worth out of an item of clothing, but there’s a line, and wearing those jeans in public carries a risk of being charged with indecent exposure. Even if they are super comfortable), and his date night underwear.

She looks so incredibly pleased with herself that Sam wants to argue on principle (because, hello, only he gets to decide when date night underwear is called for), if only he was a little bit less aware of her skills at manipulation. He can try to disagree with her, even march over to his closet and pick out his own clothes, but sooner or later he’ll wind up wearing the outfit she’s chosen for him, and chances are she’ll manage to make him think it was his idea.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asks; he doesn’t have much in the way of hope, but it's important to pretend he’s not a complete pushover.

“Eventually,” she answers. “For now, you’re going to have a shower, get dressed, and then meet me in the lobby in half an hour. And wear comfortable shoes,” she adds, almost an afterthought.

Sam doesn’t bother telling her that he only has comfortable shoes, particularly since, knowing Natasha, there’s a much more pressing conversation to have. “Do I need a weapon?”

“I’m not anticipating a fight,” she tells him, like Sam can’t see two weapons concealed about her person (and if that’s how many he can see, there’s got to be at least double that many that he can’t spot). “It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, though,” she adds when she sees where he’s looking.

Sam _hmms_ , neither agreeing nor disagreeing, if only because he knows better to point out how crazy paranoid she can be at times. “Half an hour?” 

“Not a minute more,” Natasha confirms, then turns on her heel and slips out.

Knowing the perils of disobeying her, Sam heads for the bathroom. He showers quickly, brushes his teeth (it might be early evening, but he definitely has morning breath), dresses in the clothes Natasha picked out for him, then spends the remainder of his half hour making sure he looks his best (she might not have explicitly told him that’s required, but it seems a safe bet it’s what she’s after).

After a moment umming and ahhing over whether he ought to take a gun with him (no, he decides, because out of the uniform Captain America is just as likely to get stopped and searched as any other Black man, and Sam’s already been shot at enough times today; besides, he can always filch one of Natasha’s spare weapons if it turns out he needs one), Sam takes the elevator down to the lobby, arriving just in time to see Natasha and Pepper engaged in what seems to be a conspiracy.

There’s a chance he’s being paranoid, of course. Natasha’s situational awareness is good enough that she has to have noticed the elevator doors opening, but she doesn’t step away from Pepper the way she might if they were doing something they didn’t want him to know about. Then again, she’ll also know that jumping away would only make him suspicious, so the only thing Sam knows for certain is that trying to figure out Natasha’s motives is basically impossible.

“Enjoy your evening,” he hears Pepper say as he crosses over to them.

“You too,” Natasha replies, slipping her hand into her coat pocket too quickly for Sam to tell if she’s hiding something in it.

She waits until Pepper has said goodbye to them before looking him up and down. There’s no interest in her gaze – Sam’s not sure if Natasha’s on the asexual spectrum or if she’s just private about her personal life, but either way he’s never known her to express an interest in anyone, and today is no different. This is unemotional, purely assessing, though apparently Sam passes whatever test she’s set because she grins. “Looking good, Cap.”

“Uhuh,” Sam replies, not buying it for a second. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”

“Secret handoff,” she tells him, her matter-of-fact tone a complete contrast to her self-satisfied grin.

Sam rolls his eyes, though he also has to work far too hard to keep from smiling at her. “You gonna tell me where we’re going now?” he asks, sort of suspecting he’s trading one fruitless line of questioning for another.

Sure enough, Natasha beams at him. “Dinner,” she says lightly, removing her hand from her jacket pocket and zipping it up, making sure whatever she got through her _secret handoff_ isn’t going to fall out. “And a show, I suppose. Shall we?”

She holds out her arm, waiting for Sam to take it. Not being a complete idiot, he obeys, and they leave the tower in such a way that a casual observer might assume he’s escorting her rather than the other way around.

X

For a bodiless computer program, JARVIS has a surprisingly good eye for colour. The outfit he’s had delivered to Steve’s door certainly isn’t something he’d have chosen for himself – he still feels underdressed leaving his room in just a tee-shirt, and he’s a lot more comfortable wearing what Tony and Clint have previously referred to as _grandpa pants_ than he is in jeans – but the fit is good, and when he looks in the mirror Steve has to admit that he doesn’t look as ridiculous as he anticipated.

He takes the elevator up to the communal floor where he waits only slightly uncomfortably for Pepper to join him, hoping – probably uncharitably – that Tony isn’t going to turn up while he’s there. He’s had time to adjust to Tony’s occasionally abrasive personality, so much so that he’d probably class him as something close to a friend, but he’s also not sure how much Pepper’s said about her evening plans and he’s not overly keen on being interrogated if Tony doesn’t know what’s going on.

Fortunately, JARVIS must have alerted Pepper to Steve’s presence, because she joins him only a couple of minutes later, and after exchanging the standard pleasantries about how nice the other looks, they take the elevator straight down to the garage.

Happy is already waiting in the car for them, and Pepper spends the ride telling Steve about the artist whose work they’re going to see. It’s an interesting conversation, and Steve is looking forward to discussing the artworks themselves with her, which is why he’s both surprised and uncomfortable when she pulls her cellphone from her purse only a few minutes after they step inside the gallery.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, looking at the screen. “I really need to take this. Do you want to look around a bit, and I’ll catch up when I’m done?”

Steve wants to protest, not least because he didn’t even hear her phone ring (and he should have, even if it was on silent, because his enhanced hearing is more than good enough to pick up the sound of it vibrating), but she’s already darting back out the door and the gallery’s security team are trying to get him to come through the metal detector.

There’s something else going on here, not that Steve has any idea what. Still, he’s never been concerned about walking into a trap, and he’s fairly sure that, whatever she might be doing, Pepper isn’t actually trying to kill him.

He’s been looking at one particular painting, a cityscape in vibrant shades of red and orange, for about five minutes when everything becomes clear.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Natasha says, smiling her annoyingly secretive smile up at him.

“Yeah, I bet you’re real surprised,” Sam mutters, not quite _sotto voce_ enough that Steve doesn’t hear it.

“Are you here alone?” Natasha asks, for all appearances completely ignoring Sam’s words, though the way he winces slightly suggests that perhaps isn’t the case (Steve sympathises, having been on the wrong side of Natasha’s disapproval in the past).

“No, Pepper’s with me,” Steve answers, as certain as he can be that she already knows that. “Or she was, anyway. She said she had to take a call.”

“Oh, really?” she says, and only the fact that she’s Natasha and therefore has perfect control over her facial expressions keeps her from looking so innocent she seems guilty. “I’ll see if I can find her, shall I? You boys have fun looking at all the pretty pictures together.”

She doesn’t wait for a response (not that Steve has one to offer, though from Sam’s frown he suspects the other man has quite a lot he’d like to say to her), just extracts her arm from Sam’s and saunters off, heading directly to the open bar where, surprise surprise, Pepper joins her just a few seconds later.

Steve looks back at Sam to see the other man rubbing his forehead like he’s got a headache, and feels instantly terrible about this. All those times he’s caught Natasha looking at him, all those pointed comments she’s made to him about Sam and how handsome he is, all those training sessions where she suddenly realised she had other commitments and had to disappear immediately… Steve should have known it was building to something like this.

“I’m so sorry about this,” he blurts out, at exactly the same moment as Sam says, “Guess this explains the underwear.”

Steve gives himself a moment to try to figure this out. Still coming up short, he asks, “What?”

“We’ve been set up,” Sam explains, like he thinks Steve has somehow missed that absolutely mortifying fact (in which case, what exactly does he think the apology was for, Steve wonders). “Nat thinks she can read absolutely everyone and plan their lives better than they can, and she doesn’t realise when people aren’t interested.”

“But I am interested,” Steve says, too busy thinking about how well Natasha can read him to realise that Sam almost certainly meant that _he_ isn’t interested, not that Steve isn’t. That was absolutely the wrong thing for him to say, especially phrased like that, like he thinks it’s more important that he’s interested than that Sam isn’t. “Please pretend I didn’t say that.”

It’s pitiful, absolutely pitiful, and poor Sam is just gaping at his entirely unwanted confession in absolute horror.

“I’m really sorry,” Steve says, telling himself that however awful he feels, it’s nothing compared to how Sam must be feeling. At best, he has to be seriously uncomfortable, and Steve really wishes he could rewind time just a few minutes and kick himself in the shin before saying something so utterly stupid. “I respect the fact that you’re not interested in return, and I promise not to mention it again. I can- I’ll move back to SHIELD, if that’s what you-”

It takes a moment for Steve to realise that he’s stopped talking, and another moment on top of that to realise why.

Sam is-

He’s on his toes, one hand cradling Steve’s cheek, holding his face still as their lips touch, chaste and gentle and absolutely everything Steve would have wanted their first kiss to be, if he’d dared to let himself dream of such a thing.

“Oh,” he manages weakly, once Sam has pulled back.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, grinning at him all gap-toothed and gorgeous, then, “Shit, Natasha is going to be completely insufferable about this.”


	5. Epilogue

Sam wakes up at what his nephew would describe as a Goldilocks time ( _not too early and not too late_ , Jodie had explained the first time he described something as being like Goldilocks, _just somewhere in the middle_ ), if it weren’t for the fact that his work cell is kicking up one hell of a fuss only a few inches from his face.

Thing is, it might not be too early to be awake if all he’s going to do is spend the next thirty minutes curled up in bed checking his emails, twitter, and eventually the news, but it is absolutely too early for someone to be trying to end the world.

“JARVIS?” he asks, brain still coming back online, and how quickly he’s got used to having a building-wide artificial intelligence ready to answer his every question. “Priority level?”

“I cannot see anything that might merit the Avengers intervening in the headlines, Captain Wilson,” JARVIS answers. “However, Director Fury does seem rather insistent about speaking to you.”

_Well, sure_ , Sam thinks, because when has Fury ever been anything less than insistent on speaking to someone. Still, when the boss calls, Sam ought to answer, particularly since his job occasionally involves saving a whole lot of lives.

“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand and picking his phone up with the other, swiping his thumb across the screen to answer it. “Wilson.”

“About damn time,” Fury grumbles. “I need you and Rogers here yesterday.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. There’s a car outside. Suit up and get your asses to it ASAP.”

“Sir,” Sam says again, this time agreeing rather than questioning, however much he wants to do so. Trying to get information out of Fury before he’s ready to give it makes getting blood from a stone look easy; it’s a waste of time to keep pressing, and if this is an actual emergency then wasting time means risking people’s lives, and Sam doesn’t want that on his conscience.

Of course, arguing would be even more pointless than usual, because Fury has already hung up on him.

“JARVIS?” Sam says, sitting up and swinging his legs out from under the covers. “Is Steve up yet?”

“Captain Rogers is awake, yes,” JARVIS answers. “Would you like me to connect you to him?”

Sam nods, heading to his closet to retrieve the latest suit Tony has designed for him, and is halfway through changing into it when Steve says, “Morning, Sam.”

For a moment, Sam is caught up in the low rumble of Steve’s voice, still a little hoarse from sleep as he speaks for the first time this morning. One day, he thinks, he’s going to be in the same room as Steve when he hears his voice like that, close enough to touch him, smell him, feel the warmth from his skin, kiss him like he did yesterday and, god and Steve willing, do more than just kiss. One day soon, he hopes.

“Sam?” Steve prompts, which is when Sam realises just how long he’s been daydreaming. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Sam shakes his head, clears his throat, and finally gets round to putting the second leg of his pants on. _SHIELD mission_ , he reminds himself. _Get dressed now; fantasise later_. “Fury wants to see us at SHIELD,” he explains.

“Now? Both of us?”

“He’s already sent a car.” Sam grimaces, hating the part of himself that is jealous, that doesn’t want to pass on the rest of Fury’s message. He likes Steve, really likes him, and he really doesn’t want to feel this way, particularly since Steve has done nothing to suggest he might want to resume being Captain America. Hell, he hasn’t even touched the shield except to help Sam train with it, and Sam just needs to bite the bullet and tell him. “He said to suit up. Sounds like he’s got a mission for us both.”

Steve remains silent for a moment, and when he finally speaks there’s an edge to his voice that Sam can’t easily identify. “I see,” he says, not angry but not happy either, just thoughtful, not that Sam has a freaking clue what he’s thinking. “I guess I’ll meet you at the car, then?”

“Right,” Sam agrees, an uncomfortable weight in the pit of his stomach. “Fury couldn’t have waited until later in the day, could he?” he mutters to himself, though he sort of suspects this is a situation that can’t be fixed via the careful application of caffeine.

The fans in the ceiling sort of hum for a moment, like JARVIS is trying out a non-verbal comforting noise, but he doesn’t say anything, and continues to not say anything as Sam finishes dressing, collects his wings and the shield, and takes the elevator down to the lobby.

Steve is waiting by the door, a cardboard tray containing two takeout cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other, and he smiles when he sees Sam, big and wide and happy enough that Sam feels even more guilty for resenting the fact that Fury wants him in on whatever this is. He’s wearing slacks and a tucked in tee-shirt, a look that manages to be both ridiculously fuddy-duddy and weirdly cute, and Sam allows himself a moment to enjoy his boyfriend’s hideous grasp of modern fashion before acknowledging the fact that his outfit isn’t remotely close to a uniform. “That’s what you think suit up means?”

“They’ll have gear there for me, if I need it,” Steve answers, then leans down to press a very thorough kiss to Sam’s lips, effectively distracting him from pointing out that Fury wouldn’t have wanted him to be in uniform if he didn’t think it was necessary.

Sam is weak at the knees by the time Steve pulls back, halfway to swooning on the floor like the heroine in a Victorian novel, and it would be embarrassing if Steve wasn’t flushed and beaming and looking like he wants nothing more than to take Sam’s hand and lead him back upstairs again.

Steve recovers faster (obviously a result of the serum, Sam decides), shaking himself out of his daze and handing Sam the bag he was holding (which, now that he’s closer, Sam can smell contains some kind of pastries). “I brought you breakfast,” he says, taking Sam’s hand now that he’s got one free. “Shall we?” 

“We shall,” Sam agrees, helpless in the face of his wonderful, caffeine-providing boyfriend. He follows Steve out to the SUV that is idling in what has to be a strict no-waiting zone, and feels a flush of embarrassed-flattered warmth in his stomach as Steve holds the door open for him.

They don’t make out the whole way there, but it’s not because Sam doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t think it’s because Steve doesn’t want to either. They’re adults, responsible ones, on their way to what is potentially a very serious situation, and this is not the time to behave like horny teenagers.

Fortunately, the SUV pulls up at SHIELD before this argument ceases to be effective, and neither of them speaks as an agent leads them through the building to a conference room Sam may or may not have found himself in before (which is absolutely SHIELD’s fault for decorating every single room an identical and very boring shade of grey).

There’s no sign of Fury, but Maria Hill is standing at the head of the table, next to a bank of monitors Sam would have considered high-tech before seeing Tony’s lab. Sam recognises about two thirds of the men and women sitting around the table from previous missions he’s been on with SHIELD teams, and exchanges a nod with the few he actually likes.

“Good, you’re here,” Hill says brusquely. “Have a seat, Captains. We’ve got a situation brewing in- Is there a problem, Captain Rogers?”

Sam turns slightly, expecting Steve to be sat in the chair next to him, and is surprised to find him still standing in the doorway, arms crossed and frowning.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

Sam blinks, mentally tracking back through the events of the morning. Steve certainly seemed to understand that Fury was summoning them to SHIELD when they left the tower, and he hasn’t said anything to Sam to indicate otherwise since then, nor have they been far enough apart for Steve to be exposed to some mind-altering substance, certainly not one that would have affected Steve but left Sam completely unaware. He starts to stand, ready to head over to him and check his eyes or his pulse or something, anything that might indicate what’s going on, but Steve’s fingers shift on his bicep, forming an _okay_ sign out of Hill’s line of sight.

Sam relaxes again. Whatever Steve’s doing, he clearly wants Sam to know he’s fine, and Sam trusts him enough to trust him on that.

“I’m sorry, Captain?” Hill says.

“Just Steve,” he says firmly. “Why am I here?”

Hill’s frowning too now, though, unlike Steve, she seems more confused than she does disapproving. “You’re… you’re Captain America?”

“I haven’t been Captain America since 1945,” Steve tells her. “ _Sam_ is Captain America, and from everything I’ve seen he’s doing a damn fine job of it.”

Part of Sam wants to bury his face in his hands as every pair of eyes turns to him. He’s used to hearing people talk about him, both praise and denigration, but it’s never been someone he cares about as much as he does Steve, nor has it ever sounded as earnest as Steve does. He pushes down that part of himself, the part that’s awkward and embarrassed and still feels like he’s _less_ than Steve, and tries to channel Natasha and her complete unflappability. He can listen to his boyfriend compliment him in front of his boss and a lot of his colleagues without blushing, without hiding, without doing anything more revealing than smiling back at Steve.

“So,” Steve finishes, drawing all the room’s attention back to him. “I’ll ask you one more time: why am I here?”

Hill splutters for a moment, shaking her head, and Sam almost feels sorry for her, but only almost.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Steve says, uncrossing his arms and stepping backwards so that he’s standing in the hallway rather than the doorway. “If Captain America wants me to back him up, he can let me know. Until that happens, I’m gonna go get a coffee.” He grins at Sam, bright and brilliant and just plain beautiful, and Sam wants to reach for him, room full of colleagues be damned, but he is going to be mature and responsible and listen to whatever Hill’s brewing situation is.

Once that’s resolved, though… Well, Sam is definitely going to have plans for after all of this.

“See you later,” he says, grinning back at Steve, then turns back to Hill. “So, there’s a situation brewing in…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please let me know. And, if you so choose, you can find me on tumblr at [dreaminglypeach](https://dreaminglypeach.tumblr.com/). Come say hi, I promise I don't bite. You can also reblog the tumblr masterpost for our collab here: [here](https://dreaminglypeach.tumblr.com/post/637338380337823745/legacy-waiting-in-the-wings) x


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